Another suicide.

Another loss of a young life. Another chance to be thankful that we aren’t (and I hope will never be) in such a situation. I asked why she jumped and regretted immediately. No combination of reasons can justify the taking of one’s own life. But yet people persistently want to know the most trivial of details. How? Which floor? Was it in the news? So what if you spot her face in the obituary? So what if you find out her age? So what if you read that she was from such and such a school? Does it make you feel any better? Will it change anything? Would it matter in the slightest? And why must you come and stick it in my face so that I can put a countenance to the misery? Did I ever ask to know? Did you expect me to be grateful? Fools. All just a bunch of fools.

What I do

It seems that many of my friends still don’t know what I do as a copywriter. All I tell them is that I’m in advertising or that I write ads or that I sell hotdogs by the beach so perhaps a brief explanation is in order here.

It’s best to start by making clear what I don’t do.

1. I am not a data entry clerk. ‘Copy’ in copywriter doesn’t mean transferring lines of text by hand from one page to another. ‘Copy’ here is used as a noun and refers to a body of text. If you are still unconvinced, you are a cretin.

2. I do not deal with copyrights.

3. Just because I am a copywriter doesn’t mean that I can write movie scripts, telemarketer scripts, emcee scripts, your marketing essay, the Bible etc.

4. I am not an English guru. Sure, I have a working knowledge of the language and I can tell a noun from an adjective but if you ask me to explain what an infinitive is, split or otherwise, I’ll refer you to my friend, Mr. Shoe.

5. I am not a liar. It’s interesting to note that advertising executives come in below lawyers in trustworthiness ratings. For that, I blame the suits. But maybe that’s a little unfair. After all, everyone knows that it is lines like “You could be a millionaire, NAMEXXXXXXXXXX, if you reply today and if you are chosen as the winner and if you have affixed all the damned seals and if you have ordered our lovely clocks and if you have exactly 6 toes” that have covered us in shite. But let’s just blame the client (or certain major publication) for that.

So what is it that we copywriters do? Very fundamentally, we are hired to write copy that persuades a consumer to take action. This action most often takes the form of parting with hard-earned money to purchase a product or service that they don’t need. But it’s more than that. There have been many ads for public service organisations such as PETA, the Red Cross and Amnesty International among others to raise public awareness and call for greater participation.

I like McCann Erickson’s corporate slogan “Truth Well Told”. It captures what every copywriter seeks to achieve – an ad that packages the truth in a palatable way. Of course, the converse of that, as Adrian informed me, is “Shit Well Sold”. I don’t wanna think about that option.

Copywriters are idea generators. But they’re not alone in this. If you are a copywriter, you will most likely spend your days brainstorming with and trying not to kill your art director partner. This is the dude who, on the one hand, could help you come up with that award winning idea but who, on the other hand, will also bug you endlessly to cut or add copy depending on what he smoked half an hour ago. You, in turn, will continually tell him to shove it and change the point size instead to which he will reply that he isn’t your bitch and suggest that you take your pen and stick it in your eye which will make you remind him that his parents were never married which in turn will agitate him to make fun of the pudenda of a female biologically related to you after which both of you will storm into the servicing guy’s cubicle and inform him that he is a sorry-faced ass for writing such a crappy brief.

Which brings me to the brief. This is not something you cover your nether regions with nor is it something you wear on your head. It is a set of essential information that forms the foundation and sets the direction of the creative work and it is often written by *gasp* a suit. I haven’t seen a brief in 4 months but in my previous agency, this was mostly done with the CTRL C and CTRL V shortcuts which resulted in a chunk of text worthy of a copywriter’s glowering glare. (Comments, Gavin?)

But it isn’t so much the brief as the briefing that creatives dread. Chirpy suit strides into the room declaring that it’s a wonderful day. Creatives lift heads from table and wonder what day of the week it is and what the hell this lunatic is doing beaming like that. Suit declares that the forthcoming pitch is VERY EXCITING and VERY EXTENSIVE even if it’s for (and this is John’s example) Sin Wah Oyster Sauce. And so on and so forth. Suits are a different species of advertising professional. I don’t know how they do it but I respect them for being able to take shit from the client and then come back and take shit from the creatives without hurling themselves out of windows. No agency could do without them.

I see that I have digressed. This was supposed to be about me. Never mind. There is no copywriter without the agency anyway.

We're four.

I first met Pat at an orientation camp in NUS. She was a freshie. I was a 2nd year councillor. (Note: I did not volunteer for the camp with the express purpose of getting hitched. My parents were in the process of their divorce at the time and I had to get out. Why do I even need to explain myself?) I managed to get Adrian to go with me and, other than putting his hands around my neck and squeezing vigorously upon seeing a lump of female corpulence waddle into our OG, he was a great partner. It was odd that I never really noticed Pat throughout the camp. I was too preoccupied with getting thrown into the sea, pitching tents and trying to survive all the damn telematches.

And so it was only after the camp that Pat and I really got to know each other. We talked a lot over ICQ (this really is ancient history) and started meeting up. My impression of her was that of a well-balanced, sensible, down-to-earth girl with a disturbing propensity to either walk into or have things walk into her. The latter made me laugh which in turn led to me experiencing some pain of my own. Nothing comes free.

In the following month or so, I realised that I liked very much how we could talk about so many things and how she seemed bereft of any willful or childish tendencies. To me, she seemed perfect. After enduring a previous relationship with a somewhat moody girl, I needed something that wouldn't fall into the routine of quarrel - try desperately to make up - make up - quarrel. Which is why one day I sent her an SMS asking if she would be my girlfriend. Now, before you romantics start getting all up in arms over this ostensibly unromantic approach, you must first realise that like any good advertisement, the message and the medium of delivery were targeted specifically at this audience. Pat wasn't and still isn't the type who falls for effusiveness or extravagance. She likes things simple (not that I am simple!) and to the point. And besides, it's comforting to know that she said yes solely because of me and not because of some 3-foot tall Hello Kitty toy with a pink heart-shaped balloon tied to one paw.

Last night, we celebrated our fourth year together in the traditional, uncomplicated way. An excellent dinner at Bliss (the mash there is amazing) was followed by a nice long chat about everything and everyone. It's good that conversation still flows freely after so long. This baffles many of my friends who find it strange that we can actually communicate when Pat's a Mandarin teacher while I am this “chao kantang” copywriter. It's never been an issue really. Pat's effectively bilingual and I'm, well… er… yeah.

So there it is. Life since meeting Pat has been one big fat strawberry for me. I hope it's been the same for her though I've been a less than perfect partner. If she complains, however, rest assured that I won't be telling any of you about it.

Diarrhoea

Today, something solid came out of my ass and I rejoiced. Hey, you try being a Milo dispenser for a day. And yes, I am referring to the actual dispensing mechanism, not the person who pushes the lever to dispense the damned drink.

Donnie Darko

This movie will screw you up after which you will need to visit this webby to be screwed up some more before you eventually get unscrewed. It really is most fascinating, all this screwing and unscrewing.

If you could look into the future and found that it would be really screwed up if you were in it, then you might as well not have a future at all. That is the basic premise this movie is based on though you could interpret it anyway you want really. The really screwed up among you might even detect some existentialist/fatalist/determinist elements in this mish-mash. Have fun.

Joe has jogged.

And other than sweating like a cow, panting like a pansy and generally feeling like a soggy sock, Joe thinks he has come out of it pretty well.

Ah heck, I can’t write in third person. Is this third person? First? Never mind. English majors are not as well-known for their English as they are for their propensity to avoid any sort of productive work.

I am sure that I will regret this excursion in fitness tomorrow morning when I attempt to remove myself from my bed but instead manage only to propel myself directly onto the floor and, having gotten there, thus proceed to lament (face down) the loss of my legs.

Still, kudos to Chow, Ann and Eunice for somehow motivating me to jog. Chow for providing the transport. Ann for actually jogging. And Eunice for coming up with that targeted ad headlined “No More Excuses” that plopped itself comfortably in my inbox.

On another running related note, I finally tendered my resignation today. After a week and a half, my boss made her long awaited return from Hong Kong. (The first thing she did was yabber on the phone in what I am convinced is tongues which led to Dave, Tanty and Krazy Karen IM-ing me within seconds with the collective message “SHE’S BAAAAAAACK!!!” The assholes.) And so we had the usual “why are you leaving”, “where are you going” talk in the conference room (they always go to the conference room) the contents of which I will not reproduce here.

So I’ll be off in a month to what is hopefully a more exciting job. It’s a little premature for goodbyes so I’ll save them for a few more weeks. Besides, I have been slated as the copywriter for a truckload of mailings so my brain will probably be filled with formats, material keys and personalisations once again. Ah, the joys of work.

Back in the mainstream

So I’m waiting at the reception of my future agency grinning insanely at the awards wall. Countless New York Fests, an INK award, one (rather ugly) Cannes Lion. I have never seen so much prestige in my life. And then an arty creative walks past which forces me to act nonchalant (look at fingernails, tap feet, you know), as if I’m used to this sort of thing. The moment he’s gone, the insane grinning commences again. I don’t know why I behave like that.

This goes on for twenty whole minutes (grin, nonchalant, grin, nonchalant) until the HR manager finally remembers that she has to actually pass me the papers before I can sign them. I have never signed anything this fast.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to read through this.” she says and slips out of the conference room.

Within 5 seconds, my signature is planted on both copies of the appointment letter. Amazing even for someone whose signature looks like grass or a bunch of weeds (thanks for pointing this out, Tanty).

And then I sit back and smile contentedly at the whiteboard for 15 minutes. Once again, I know not why.

It’s rather disturbing that I’m so awed by all this advertising stuff. I wonder what type of slobbering wreck I’d be if I ever get into Ogilvy. Stop sniggering Gavin. We are distant colleagues after all, in a sense. Maybe it’s something you get used to (the advertising stuff, not the slobbering). Maybe I’ll even contribute to the collection. I certainly hope so. At the very least, I’ll be more motivated than I am here. Formats? What are those? Material keys? *scoff* I’m back in the mainstream!

Anyway, before I start sounding like some crackhead, I now find myself in need of a resignation letter – something which, despite my occupation, I have no idea how to write. This makes a visit to i-resign.com necessary once again. This is how I resigned 4 months ago and this is how I’ll resign now. Some things never change.

Many things to do

More than a week since I've posted anything but there have been urgent matters afoot e.g. piggybacking Pat around a playground before unceremoniously unloading her back-first onto the ground, devouring three crabs with Eunice and Teck at 9.30pm somewhere in Geylang, trying my darnedest to land my ass in some multinational ad agency etc.

So many things to do, so little time. More posts when my brain clears.